


Don’t tap the glass

by marguerite_26



Series: Pornathon 2012 [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artists, M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marguerite_26/pseuds/marguerite_26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for summerpornathon Round 1. <a href="http://i.imgur.com/SuwL8.jpg">(NWS) Image Prompt</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Don’t tap the glass

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to eleadore for the beta.

Arthur doesn’t see the artistry in the light fixture made of condom wrappers or the fruit-insertion photography displayed throughout Morgana’s gallery. But he sees it here; this isn’t filth or shock-entertainment – this is _art_. And he’s struck breathless by the beauty of it. The small square of glass is at eyelevel. His first impression was that it was a video screen, but Arthur’s watched long enough to know with certainty that it’s simply a window. There’s a hole cut through the wall so that the framed glass affords a view into the next room and the head of a bed where a naked man is wanking. 

_Don’t tap the glass; he’s shy._ Arthur smirks at the silver script below this particular piece of performance art. The irony of a shy exhibitionist is exactly the sort of humour Morgana has sprinkled throughout her eclectic collection: _Sexuality in Art_. 

A lit cigarette dangles from the man’s pouty lips as he reaches down and grabs himself and Arthur needs to walk away. He does a quick circle of the exhibit to in a futile attempt to pretend he’s not enraptured and because he’s so close to coming at the sight of the smoke and the sweat and the spread of the man’s legs. He’s been watching for far too long now, having seen the man paint his pale chest with come once, wipe himself clean, oblivious to the crowd milling around on the other side of the wall. The man simply poured himself a glass of water and lit a cigarette before lying back on the bed as if he were at home on a Saturday afternoon with nothing better to do than keep his dick in his hand.

Arthur comes back before too long. He leans on a pillar, like the casual stance will make anyone think he’s bored when he knows his face is flushed. The program he has covering his crotch isn’t going to fool anyone. He refuses to touch himself; he’s a counter-point to this exhibitionist’s utter shameless display. He’s aching to take himself in hand. On the last circuit around the gallery he nearly stopped in the loo, but there were things that just _weren’t done_. Art gallery loo wanking was pretty much the top of Arthur’s social _faux-pas_ list.

The man’s mostly playing now; his dick’s still soft and floppy from earlier. His loose fist’s working the shaft like Arthur might on a lonely Friday night when he hadn’t decided yet if he wanted to wank. 

He’s watching something on the ceiling as he strokes himself. Arthur figures it’s porn playing in some big screen TV Morgana installed just for that purpose. Whatever it is, it’s working because there’s a tight squeeze, and the man’s starting to tug with a bit more purpose. Heat prickles at Arthur’s nape, his hair curling wetly at his ear. 

The man’s free hand dips lower; Arthur can’t see but knows the angle well enough to imagine the tip of a finger pushing at his entrance. Arthur squirms, his hand half-hidden by the crumpled program presses hard against his throbbing dick.

The area around him is silent. Everyone’s mesmerised by the long, thick cock in the man’s fist, the play of his muscles as he strains closer and closer. Arthur’s breathing has gone ragged and he needs to walk away now if he’s going to save face but his feet won’t move. 

Morgana appears at his elbow and he clenches his teeth in a mix of humiliation and annoyance. 

“You have a fan,” she says and hands him a note.

It’s a name and number. He looks to Morgana, question on his lips, and she points up before he can even get the words out. Arthur cranes his neck and sees the circle of black and the tell-tale red light of a recording camera in rafters over his head.

In the next room, the bloke’s pumping his cock in a helpless, stuttering rhythm; his eyes are wide open, staring at the ceiling. Arthur’s balls tighten. He knows exactly _who_ this bloke’s wanking to. Arthur’s losing control in this crowded exhibit with this man watching him. 

“Are you going to come in your pants for him, Arthur?” Morgana whispers. “It’ll get him off, I bet.” 

He shudders at the thought, bracing himself on the pillar, helpless to stop the orgasm crashing over him. His gut twists, mortified by Morgana’s throaty laugh. He watches the bloke behind the glass arch off the bed and coat his fingers.


End file.
